


Die Another Day

by luminarium



Series: Bonding [1]
Category: James Bond - All Media Types, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gaby continues to be surrounded by gorgeous men, Gen, Jealous Illya, Napoleon doesn't like not being in the loop, murderous gorgeous men, seething Illya, so there it is, the idea of these guys bumping into each other wouldn't leave me alone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-01-30 09:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12651120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminarium/pseuds/luminarium
Summary: Illya and Napoleon didn’t see eye to eye in many things, but there was something they could definitely agree on: everything was going smoothly, up until he arrived.





	1. Chapter 1

It was a simple mission.

“Alright, Gabs, you’re on. Are you ready?”

“Stop fidgeting with my dress,  _husband_.”

They could hear Illya huffing on the line.

“I am not fidgeting, I just want my  _darling wife_  to look perfect”.

_“If you don’t stop playing, you’re going to miss target”._

“Thank you for reminding us, Peril. Now, dear, at my signal and try not to play with your earpiece”.

Gaby looked at him as if she were about to take the damn thing off and throw it unceremoniously into his flute of expensive champagne. Instead she gave him a tight little smile and began walking towards the bar.

Solo watched her go and took a sip.

“We are already behind schedule.” 

He heard Illya’s reprimand and chuckled. Not being in the field for two missions in a row and - he suspected - not being the one playing husband with their little German colleague, was taking its toll on the Russian giant. 

“Relax.” he drawled, nodding politely to an heiress at the other side of the room, making an internal note to invite her a drink, if he had the chance. “She’ll be in and out. It’s just a matter of-”

Illya’s hard voice coming through the line suddenly interrupted him. His accent was thicker than usual, his voice deeper. “Man working towards Gaby, three o’clock. I’m coming in.”

Tearing his eyes from his heiress, he went back to business. 

“No. I’ll go. I’m her  _husband_ , remember?”

Finishing his champagne and leaving it on a tray, he advanced removing his earpiece and putting it in his jacket pocket, just in time to miss Illya’s frustrated growl. 

* * *

“I’m sorry, my dear, but I have to say: you look exquisite in that dress.”

Prompted by the compliment and compelled by the rich voice in which it was said, Gaby turned. The man behind her was sharply dressed in a black suit so impeccable it was almost irksome. By his accent, she could tell he was English. He was certainly pleasant to look at —white smile and blue eyes. She surveyed his handsome features. There was a queer glint in his eyes that suggested something else about his character, but she couldn’t name what it was. 

“Why, thank you.”

“May I buy you a drink?”

“That’s really nice, but I already have one.” she replied somewhat playfully indicating the flute of  _Dom Perignon_  in her left hand. Coincidentally, the one that had Illya’s ring, the one he had made for her during their first mission in Rome. 

He couldn’t have missed it. She waited for some reaction, but he simply smiled in a very charming way, and when he spoke again, he did so as if he were confiding a secret to her:

“When you try this,” he said, getting closer to her “you won’t want to have any other, trust me.”

Gaby was left speechless, which didn’t happen very often. She forced a smile again and, after placing her champagne down the nearest table, grabbed the glass the fascinating stranger was handing out to her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was, but  _something_  was a little off. Easily enough, as if prompted, her mind went to Illya. Why wasn’t he nagging her through the ear piece with instructions? He had to been listening, he always was. Where was he? She fixed her hair, trying not to convey any of her nervousness, hoping that the reception wasn’t off.  

“That magnificent drink is vodka martini.” He waited for her to take a sip. “Do enjoy it and, please, stop touching your ear piece”.

At that, she almost dropped the glass. 

“Who are you?” she demanded in a hushed voice, laced with disbelief. 

Gaby scanned his face, desperate to find a lead, a mark, something to recognise the man that had clearly recognised  _her_. She repeated the question, a little more urgently, her voice faltering a bit. 

Her companion’s little smile widened and his response came after a beat, as if it all had been perfectly timed and rehearsed. 

“If you have to ask that question, you aren’t doing your job properly”.

Her cover was blown. Her cover was blown. Her cover was blown. 

 _Damn it._    

Panic began to grow at the pit of her stomach. 

“I- I would appreciate it if you could explain yourself more plainly, sir.”

“And I would appreciate if you could call off your Russian watchdog.”

She quickly looked past him and the vision of Illya walking towards her robbed her of her capacity to breathe. His gaze was fire on hers as he advanced through the crowd, looking determined to break her companion’s neck like a twig.   

“Stand down, Peril. We need him alive”.

Napoleon appeared behind Gaby in the blink of an eye. Illya stopped right beside them, his body tense and, despite Cowboy’s command, with his hands closed in fists, ready to engage in combat. 

“Thank you, gentlemen. Now that we are all together, why don’t we take this conversation somewhere else?”

“We are are not going anywhere.” Solo replied, tightly. 

The queer light that Gaby had seen in the stranger’s eyes before disappeared and his expression hardened. His charming features hinted at something dangerous beneath the enchanting  _façade_  that made her take a step back.  

“Darling, why don’t you tell your husband and the bodyguard that while we stay here, our lives and, more importantly, the operation, is at risk? Oh, I take it that you don’t believe me, but why don’t you take a look at that chap over there… and over there… and the one behind the first column by the bar?”

Illya frowned and looked at Gaby, who discreetly turned to see the three men the stranger was pointing out and at Napoleon, as he in turn watched the target get up and walk away from their grasp. 

“I could remain here and let you be the targets, or you can come with me this very instant and save us the trouble. I have my car parked outside, we need to be in HQ in four minutes. You may have to crouch a little, though.”

He looked at his watch in a casual manner and Napoleon sighed. It was all very odd and unsettling. Illya broke the silence, his shoulders squared. 

“Who sent you?”.

“M.” said simply the nameless man who, apparently, both saved his lives by blowing the mission and vice versa. 

Gaby elbowed Napoleon on the ribs and looked urgently at Illya. Her sense of survival took over her.

“What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

He nodded curtly and signaled the exit with a tilt of his dark head.  

“If you’d follow me, gentlemen. My lady”.

* * *

Napoleon couldn’t bring himself to enter the car without asking. 

“Now that we’ve made it out without a scratch, could you please tell us-?

“I’m MI6. I’ve been sent to get you out. A simple extraction.” He paused. “I take it you’re familiar with the term but do ask if you have questions” he added tartly. 

“ _We are not stupid_.” 

Illya’s reply was sharp. He tore his icy glare from the annoying MI6 agent to eye the vehicle in front of him with uneasiness. 

“I’m certainly glad you think so.”

Gaby gaped, furious at the remark, and Napoleon stopped dead on his tracks. His eyes flew at Peril’s hands, where his fingers had started to shake. He looked like he wanted very much to toss this stranger into the river along with his toy car for good, come hell or high water.  

“You  _do_  know he’s KGB, right?” he pointed out carefully, finding an odd symmetry in trying to save the life of the man that most probably was saving theirs. 

“I know everything there is to know about you. I know, for example, that you” said the stranger, looking at the German woman, “are Gabriella Teller and that the photograph in your file doesn’t do you justice”.

Gaby’s face grew hot and Napoleon rolled his eyes, sparing one look at Illya, who was seething and about to let his temper run away with him. He was quick to intervene, for all their sakes. 

“Since we know nothing of you, we’d appreciate if you could enlighten us, Mr…”

“Bond. James Bond.”

The three members of U.N.C.L.E. said nothing as he opened the driver’s door of his Aston Martin and ran an impatient hand through his perfectly combed hair. 

“Now, I hate being boorish but I must ask you, unless you want to leave here in a body bag, to  _get in the bloody car._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond and Solo are alone until they are not.

“Of the many things I don’t get,” said Solo, stopping his pacing to face the spy that had so graciously taken them to MI6 headquarters in one piece, “there is one that puzzles me the most.”

“All will be explained in due time. But perhaps I can enlighten you”, replied the man known as James Bond languidly, now sat at a desk before him.

“Why would they send a 007 for a simple extraction?”

Bond had entered HQ without the need to account for anything, not even his identity. His icy blue eyes looked ever ahead and the members of U.N.C.L.E. had had to struggle to keep up with him as he made his way into the building, right to were M’s office was. Napoleon breathed, reluctantly impressed, feeling the weight of the room on his shoulders: they were currently in the very heart of British Intelligence. MI6 had thousands of agents in the field, but only a handful with this sort of access.

“M’s idea of punishment, no doubt.”

“For what?”

Bond just smiled and poured himself a glass of whiskey from a tray. His impeccable jacket was hanged in the back of the chair. Dressed in an elegant black waistcoat and a crisp white shirt made Solo feel inexplicably under dressed, which was, of course, ridiculous. He accepted the whiskey Bond was silently offering and took a sip. Utterly ridiculous, he thought, and quite disturbing.

“He likes to remind me from time to time that, of the two of us, _he_ is the one holding the leash.”

Napoleon couldn’t help but nod, understanding the feeling far too much for his liking.

“You are under Waverly, do you not? Decent chap”, he added, as if he couldn’t say the same for everyone. “A word of advice, though: if he invites you to a friendly round of poker, politely refuse. What we drove in today? I used to have two.”

Napoleon smiled and raised his glass.

“Sorry for your loss. You know, that is one hell of a car. Not very comfortable for four people, though” he quipped, rather insolently.

Bond finished his whiskey in one take and left the glass on the desk, twisting a smile at the American.

“I work better alone”.

Suddenly, the door opened and a woman appeared at the door. She was the very image of efficiency, with her wavy, brown hair in a fashionable bun, dark eyes behind glasses and lips as red as blood. Yet she didn’t wear the enticing smiles Solo had seen and kissed so many times over the years in countless nights in the field. No, she wore an easy sort of smile that was certainly refreshing.

“007? M on line 4” she indicated, sparing a look at him and then focusing on the Englishman.

“Thank you. Should I take it at your desk?” Bond replied cheekily, making to stand. She remained unperturbed by his suggestion.

“There’s literally a phone in front of you, Bond. A perfectly functioning phone at that.”

“I know,” he sighed, slumping again in the chair in mock defeat, “but accompanying you sounded far more fetching”.

Her expression softened somewhat, and her tone became more playful. “I thought you were losing your eyesight, James, as most men your age do.”

“And not being able to look at you anymore, Moneypenny?” he raised his voice in outrage and declared, “I might as well get shot!”

Napoleon rolled his eyes and left his glass on the tray with a loud clang. She blushed but, thankfully, didn't swoon or sigh. Instead, she mirrored Napoleon’s reaction and tilted her head.  

“Men are _so_ dramatic”. With one last look at the spy she closed the door, not before catching James’ wink. It was all very unsettling for Napoleon being the odd one out in this exchange and he was glad when Bond’s expression went back to being all businesslike as he picked up the phone.

“Sir”.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond is a puzzle and Solo is not in the mood.

“M will be here in twenty minutes. I expect he is bracing himself for a little shouting match with the people at Whitehall so he’ll want to be briefed about our little encounter before that, no doubt. Would it bother you terribly to fetch your friends? I’d do it myself, but I suspect your Russian friend won’t react very kindly to my prompting.”

“Lay off him a bit, will you?” Solo was glad none of his companions were present. Sighing, he turned to the half full bottle of scotch once again. Twenty minutes alone with this man were getting to his nerves. He poured himself another glass and drank, letting the liquid settle in his belly. The last one, he thought. Once he had an explanation to all this, he'd be more at ease, he was sure. They would receive new instructions and would be on their way, just as before. It would be as if they’d never met.  

“He has a temper on him and fists of steel to go with it, but we’re on the same side.”

“And which side is that?”

“I…” He was caught unawares and, as a result, he uncharacteristically ran out of words. He must have looked shocked, but not as shocked as when agent 007 chuckled and crossed his legs behind the desk.

“Never mind, Napoleon. I’m riling you up.”

“Why?”

“I don’t particularly enjoy babysitting, you know” drawled the agent, looking at the bottom of his empty glass with some annoyance.

Oh, it was a good thing _he_ was standing here and not Illya. He now fully understood his partner’s need to beat that infuriating man’s smile out of his face. Instead of doing so, however, he threw him a cold look and picked up his own jacket from the hanger by the door. He turned to see Bond checking his clock. Lifting his chin ever so slightly he addressed him sharply. “I would back off from Gaby if I were you.”

“I never took you for the possessive sort, Solo. Kuryakin on the other hand… Well, can’t say I’m shocked. It won’t work out, though. These things never do.”

“Excuse me?” asked Napoleon, outraged at Bond’s words. _H_ e had not _seen_. _He_ had not _been there_. “What makes you say that? Personal experience?”

“Common sense,” retorted the spy, nonchalantly, emptying the content left in the bottle inside his own glass. “Our lives stand at the end of many guns, Mr. Solo, and, at some point, someone is going to pull a trigger. We might as well take life as it comes and hope to die another day”.

It was a bitter philosophy and he was not surprised Bond needed all that bourbon to swallow it. He raised his eyebrows and said nothing, leaving 007 to ponder in silence as he went out to find the rest of U.N.C.L.E.

Napoleon had never been much of a romantic. True, he liked to play fast and loose when the mission allowed it, but he thought he was not deprived of _feeling_. Thinking back at the man who had sat in front of him for the past twenty minutes, the same that now was feasting on what was left of M’s fine scotch, he suspected he wasn’t either. As he made his way through the hallway, he concluded that, for all his aloofness, he had sounded like someone who had gambled something far more precious than a car and lost, and who wouldn’t be caught making that mistake again.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something shifts, something cracks, something changes. Nothing will be the same.

“Illya” she called, softly. Awkwardly sat in one of the fine blue couches the MI6 lounge had, the Russian was quite a sight. His long form was resting too low for comfort and his neck was painfully hunched forward. He hadn’t removed his cap and his hands were in his jacket pockets.

“Talk to me” Gaby tried again, knowing full well by now that a quiet invocation would work far better than a reprimand. This was at least what she said to herself before losing her patience with the man.

“Not in the mood”.

“At least we are alive” she remarked, increasingly irritated, standing up and walking barefoot across the room.

He grunted, as if that were too small a victory for his taste. She stopped by his side to look at him through painted lashes.

“You sound disappointed”.

“The mission failed” the agent stated matter-of-factly.

She felt her cheeks burning. “Aren’t you glad we made it out without a scratch?”

“ _Da_ , but that doesn’t change things”.

Gaby stopped to consider his words.

“Waverly will understand. I’m sure Bond-“

“ _I don’t care about Waverly_ ” he interrupted, offended.  

Illya was bitter, and when he was, he said stupid things that made her want to tackle him to the ground.

 _Fuck rationality_ , she decided.

“Look at me”, her strained voice prompted. The adrenaline of anticipation was already coursing through her.  

“Don’t press this, chop shop. Mind your business.” His accent was thick and his expression, vicious. He made to leave the couch and walk to the window, away from her, but before he could make it very far, however, he felt her yanking his sleeve, forcing him back.  

“Don’t you dare turn your back on me! _Look at me_!”

He turned and looked down, expecting to meet her blazing blown eyes, only to see she had stood on the spot he had left vacant to make up for their different heights. He lifted his head and his icy blue eyes bore into hers. Slowly he brought a finger to his lips.

Emboldened rather than intimidated, Gaby managed to make for the front of his jacket. She didn’t give him time for him to react and brought his stoic expression now inches from her blush. When her lips touched his ear, he let out a shaky breath.

“You should know better than to boss me around and ignore me, Kuryakin. Drop the attitude or I’ll wrestle you out of it”.

His whole body reacted to her husky whisper. Her anger broke something inside of him and, with a familiarity that sent a thrill through her spine, he brought his forehead towards hers. _Truce_ , it seemed to say without words but far more eloquently. _No more games._

Whatever spell they had created, lingered for a while, even when he spoke. “Didn’t see him coming”

“What?”

“The Englishman. He appeared out of nowhere.”

“Illya…”

“I was there. I wasn’t distracted, not for a _minute_ ” his voice began flowing out in hot bursts, there was no helping it. His tone was almost pleading, reassuring her, reassuring himself. “I had eyes fixed on you”, he whispered urgently, the hot air of his breath against her neck. She clutched the cloth of his jacket in her hands more tightly. “I wasn’t fast enough.”

“It happens”.

His voice dropped and he rumbled his answer without missing a beat, “Not to me”.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunger is real.

Their foreheads were still touching when Solo walked into the room.

_Yikes._

Neither of them seemed to notice the intrusion, though. They were too engrossed in each other to register Napoleon's raised eyebrows and his cautious steps towards them. He was undoubtedly ready to fake a coughing fit or make some cheeky comment about how MI6 surely appreciated the fact that they were comfortable enough to snuggle in their lounge, but he... didn't. There was something terribly intimate about what Gaby and Illya seemed to be sharing that kept Solo from basking in their partners’ mortification. Instead, he retreated until he was behind the door through which he had entered the room and decided to wait it out.

They were entitled to catch a break, once in a while, and spoiling it didn’t seem like fun anymore.

When he heard Illya’s sharp intake of breath and he caught Gaby’s shadow away from the spot where the Russian stood, he went out from his hiding spot and made his entrance.

“Well, this is cozy”, he drawled, making a bee line to the sofa, far away from Gaby, whose head shot up at the sight of him. Illya was fairly flustered but managed to look nonplussed by his arrival.

“Took you long enough to come back, Cowboy.”

“Well, MI6 boys are chatty and you know how I love to entertain.” He flashed them both an obnoxiously white smile and smoothed his tie, now loose around his neck from all the pulling his exasperated hands had been doing in Bond’s office.

“Did something interesting came out of your little _tête-à-tête_?” quipped Gaby, putting her heels back on.

“Actually, yes. M is visiting. Bond’s boss, who sounds as charming as getting caught in a Siberian winter wearing a bikini.”

Gaby shuddered and Illya narrowed his eyes.

“What does he want to know?”

“Everything, I expect.”

“Should we phone Waverly?”

“No need, I caught him on the radio on my way here. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Peril. You’re not the only one who knows how to handle the equipment”. He looked pointedly at Gaby, who blushed and shook her head. Illya’s hands trembled as he stepped forward towards the American.

“Relax” prompted Solo, smirk in place and hands in the air, as if to show he didn’t mean to offend… much. “I sense a bit of history between the two men in charge, to be honest, so we’ll need to be in our best behavior”.

“Then you best heed your own advice” the Russian spat bitterly, looking straight at Napoleon.

Gaby decided to interrupt the tense exchange, or rather, her stomach did. “Are any of them bringing something to eat, do you know? I’m starving.”

“Ah, that. Yes, I mentioned to Waverly that we have been stuck here without the privilege of a luscious MI6 dinner.  _We_ don’t have clearance, but it seems he’s negotiating some snacks from the cafeteria.  Unless you fancy some bourbon, which I suspect Bond has unlimited access to.”

Illya scoffed and rolled his eyes while Gaby sounded mildly interested and would have accepted, if her stomach hadn’t growled again to indicate its need for nourishment instead of liquor.

Solo grinned and got up, suddenly energized by the prospect of food and witnessing two of the most renowned men in the spying business locking horns.

“Come on! We are expected. And Peril, don’t scowl or you won’t get dessert.”

“He can have mine” said Gaby, earning the satisfaction of Illya’s surprised eyes on her again, his blue gaze warm on her, “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth and he deserves it. For looking out for me.” She added softly, for his ears only.

The Russian approached her and said nothing, all the while looking at her as if he were about to devour _her_ instead of the best imaginary cherry pie MI6 facilities had to offer. Solo would die before acknowledging how hot the room seemed to get at that moment. Coughing and slightly flustered himself, he chose to get a move on and lead the way without looking back. Even if they deserved to catch a break once in a while, he decided he should too _and soon_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clash of Spies.

In retrospect, Solo thought, Moneypenny's anxious look as she quickly showed them into the office should have been a warning of the tone of the meeting about to take place inside. M’s deep voice greeted them as they entered.

“So, this is your merry band, I presume”

Behind his dry remark, Napoleon could immediately distinguish the unmistakable tone of someone used to command and be obeyed. The man himself, however, didn’t seem too impressive, at least at 2 a.m. The head of MI6 was rather lanky, dressed in a dark grey three piece suit and a waistcoat. His red tie has suffered some abuse from all the nervous pulling his owner did to it (not that he could be blamed for that). He was reclined in his chair behind his desk, glass of whiskey in hand, his blondish hair slightly out of line, as if he had combed it in the dark of his car on his way to headquarters. But, if there was something you learnt in the spying business, is never to judge a book by its cover. Or its cover’s cover, for that matter.

He schooled his expression to meet M’s expressionless face. From the corner of his eye, he saw Illya standing straighter than he ever saw him (puffing out his immense chest, almost) and Gaby uncrossing her arms and sticking up her chin. Defensive stance, is it? Thought the American as he stood beside his partners and braced himself.  

Waverly turned from the window to look at his team. He, too, was expressionless but Solo could tell he was less composed than M, even if he was more sharply dressed. His black suit was spotless and his hair was neatly combed (although that might have been from running his hands through it so much).

“Ah. Yes. These are my men.”

Gaby threw him a calm look. All U.N.C.L.E. men flinched as if she had slammed a fist on M’s big oak desk.

“And woman, of course.” he added quickly, arranging his glasses with a breathy laugh. M chuckled, breaking his icy disposition and, without looking at him, signaled Bond to pour him another whiskey. If 007 found the presumption of being his private waiter insulting, he didn’t show it. Then again, Solo noticed the slight movement of his jaw as he squared it tightly when he approached the desk to fetch the glass.

“Good. Now that we are all together, we may start.”

He sat straight and opened a drawer to retrieve, as they quickly found out, the files from the failed mission. His eyes, however, were on them. 

“Who of you, gentlemen - or lady - would like to begin the exposition of tonight’s events?”

At the prompt, Waverly shot them a look that seemed to indicate not to take the bait. The look, if Napoleon had to be honest, was for him alone, as Illya never talked unless under duress or when being prompted or coaxed to and Gaby was decidedly not fond of questioning of any kind. He bit his tongue and shifted his weight from one feet to another.

Bond took it as a cue and, with the scotch, came the tale:

“They were on the move when I arrived. I understand everything was going as smoothly as can be expected...” he made a queer pause, which made Illya narrow his eyes.

“We did _nothing_ wrong.”

“We will be the judge of that, Mr. Kuryakin” came M’s stern reply. “Continue, Bond”.

“A minute after arriving, I received word from Q. Very clear: ‘Get in and get them out’. I believe you sent that, sir”.

“I did.”

“And here we are. All the Merry Men… and Woman.” he added tartly, looking pointedly at Gaby, who rolled her eyes and avoided his gaze.

Illya scoffed, outraged, and Bond turned to him with a satisfied expression on his perfect features, as if he were expecting the reaction.

“I’m afraid Mr. Kuryakin is feeling a tad restless. Are we inconveniencing you?”

Before Illya could reply, Gaby chimed in.

“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. M.” she amended quickly.

“Yes, Miss Teller”.

“May I ask you a question?”

Her effort to be extra civil was aimed to counterbalance her partner’s aggressive body language, no doubt, as his hands were now closing into very tight fists. M was in no mood to call him out for it and instead focused on the appealing Miss Teller. His lips curved into an amused, gracious smile.

“You may”.

“When Mr. Bond came to fetch us-” Bond’s interjection of “save” was drowned in his glass as he himself drank from his employer’s fine scotch. “He said our covers were blown. That our identities had been compromised”.

“Miss Teller, I’m familiar with the slang. Comes with the job, you see”.

"Who was it?” Illya asked in her place, relaxing his hands with effort. One of them brushed Gaby’s arm lightly. The ghost of a caress didn’t go unnoticed by Bond, Solo noticed, as the spy smiled knowingly.  

“That, Kuryakin” said M, his voice hardening once again, “is what we are trying to find out”.

There was an awkward pause during which the only noise that could be heard came from the golden ticking clock above the desk. Waverly stood by the window pinching his nose and both M’s and Bond’s eyes were on the unlikely trio.  

“I’m sorry, I’m a little lost.” interjected Solo, sighing and loosening his tie.

“By all means, we’d be delighted to help you find your place, Mr. Solo. Isn’t that right, 007?”

He ignored M’s coarse comment and looked straight at Waverly. He older spy said nothing but looked back at him with his hands in his pockets. An indication of his helplessness, perhaps? This was, after all, M’s territory, and the three of them were not only outsiders but foreigners. The word 'enemies' loomed dangerously in the horizon and danced at the tip of the tongue of both agents, he had no doubt.

“Are we being accused of something here?”

“Well, that depends.” M drawled. Bent forward with his elbows on his desk he asked, “Are you guilty?”

Another pause, more pregnant than the one before. _The silence before the storm_ , Solo thought and, even though he had nothing to declare but their innocence, he felt as the poor chaps this side of the big black oak desk must invariably feel: utterly wretched.

“I’m sorry, sir. Is our loyalty being questioned here?”. His own voice sounded foreign to his own ears and, for once, one could say Napoleon Solo was about to lose his cool for good. He had eyes only for his own boss, the one who had any hold on the three of them and the one who had assigned the mission in question. The same man that now remained silent. Had he nothing to say about the matter or did he lack the will to face M on their behalf?

“Of course you are being questioned, sir!” M barked, annoyed. “That’s our prerogative as employers when someone, as the expression goes, ‘cocks it up’!”

Waverly turned away from the trio and took off his glasses.

“And as for your _loyalty_ -”

“What my _esteemed_ colleague is trying to say here, Solo,” interrupted Waverly, markedly louder opening his eyes and running yet another exasperated hand through his greyish hair, “is that we are gathering all the information available so we can assess the matter and look into it more closely.”

He then turned to M which gave them the opportunity to watch his expression hardening and his tone becoming more confident as he spoke: “And I’ll be so bold as to remind said colleague that U.N.C.L.E. is an independent cell of espionage of which I’m in charge, as agreed by all the parties involved in its creation. Our whole reason of being is collaboration, gentlemen, against fascism and as an attempt to build something bigger than our own egos.”

Bond took out a cigarette and exchanged a look with Napoleon, whose eyebrows rose and refused to come down. They looked at each other with trepidation and an odd sense of excitement, as brothers watching their parents argue.

“As a special team, one of our many challenges is to fight for our own independence and, while we appreciate all the hard work our colleagues  go through to give us a hand, we know we are all working towards the same goal: peace. Between us, at least. ”

M didn’t blink, not even through Bond’s cloud of smoke.

“That being said, I reject the suggestion of treason from any of the members of U.N.C.L.E. on account of their background. I regret the fact anyone could take heed to claims made on such feeble grounds. I would expect a more serious argument accompanied by results of a very thorough investigation to even consider such an idea, as I’m sure you would too, were that the case with one of your men.”

He shot a look at Bond, who smiled openly and let out another puff of smoke.

If the army ever taught Solo anything - apart from minding your own business and that your life could be spared in exchange for a pack of cigarettes - is that tables could turn very quickly at any given moment and, damn him if that wasn’t what was happening there. M’s eyes looked anywhere but into Waverly’s blue ones. Never had he seen him so composed, so determined... and so angry. 

“Of course.” drawled M, at length. “Let me make myself clear, to all: as one of the founding parts of U.N.C.L.E. (I believe we trained you, Ms. Teller, however briefly) we have nothing but respect for the work you do.”

He addressed them again and this time his voice was lighter, free from underlying threats or warnings.

“Back to your question, Mr. Kuryakin, we do not yet know who has compromised your mission and, Mr. Solo, no member of U.N.C.L.E is being prosecuted on this. As Waverly has said, rather eloquently, we all stand on the same side and it’s our intention to work together as professionally as we can. Keeping our connections and procedures clean is in all our best interest.”

He stood, straightening his jacket and smoothing down his tie.

“Excuse our initial bluntness” he began in a self-deprecating tone Napoleon came to associate as thoroughly English, “but understand that this is a new experience for all of us. We are all trying to find our feet in this brave new world of ours.”

His smile hinted at something akin to sadness, Solo guessed, perhaps in mourning of an ancient order that didn’t shift so quickly. M stood from his desk and went to the tray.

“Straight, no soda and no ice. Is that right, Alex?”

“It was, yes, but I’ll have to pass. We have yet to dine, you see, and it’s against doctor’s orders...”

“It’s unprofessional to hold grudges, you know” said M, still holding out the glass to him. Waverly sheepishly took it but didn’t drink.  

“Does that mean that we still on for Poker Pub on Friday?” he asked, looking up.

“Looking forward to it!” replied M, straightening his tie.    

“Terrific! Bring your check book and a pen that works this time, will you?” said Waverly, in a rather cheeky manner, leaving the glass on the table and fetching his coat.  

“Navy boys. Bold and unrelenting, the lot of you” muttered M, firmly clasping Waverly’s hand. Bond nodded in acknowledgement at the older spy. He had a smile on that Napoleon recognised as a sign of admiration.The head of U.N.C.L.E. replied in kind at both MI6 men and smiled. 

“When the occasion calls, I believe we are.” he answered and, with a final wink, he left the room with the rest of his team promptly on his tail. As he exchanged one final look with Bond and M resumed his post behind the desk, Solo was glad to have witnessed just how true that statement was.


End file.
